


the greatest dishonor

by badbrains



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, butchering of both canons tbh, doesn't go too far in the act, i mean these are two very terrible individuals here, mentions some pretty grody stuff, the sound of me cheering for lilith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 16:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18369842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbrains/pseuds/badbrains
Summary: It seems as if all the decades of practicing the most shameless of wickedness, the most hedonistic of evil, couldn't stop Dorian from being completely awestruck and/or gobsmacked around the presence of Lucifer Himself appearing in his meager little giggle of a club.





	the greatest dishonor

The flirtatious smirk he’s serving – Dorian’s token, really – is immediately wiped off by _that_ delivery.

“Don’t you recognize me, Mr. Gray?” beseeches the ill-clothed adonis, his high cheekbones tilting up to become illuminated by the deep, warm lighting. “We struck a bargain, you and I.”

This man is simply beautiful. The sinew of his shoulders is visible, lean skin tugging taught on his trapezii. Flanking his well-formed pectorals are the hints of his serratus anterior, flashing with each gentle movement of his torso like a flayed fan. Unlike the common failing of the modern man – devoting far too much vigor in maintaining their upper body – his legs are perfectly proportional and lean, the one odd cloven hoof not withstanding. And that behind, well. That certainly draws a discerning eye, and he does consider himself quite the aficionado.

“Eternal youth, for your soul?”  


It dawns on Dorian, extraordinarily quickly, that this man is no man. He feels the blood drain out of his face all at once, and his knuckles turn equally white. Also, inelegantly, he seems to have lost control of his expression entirely as his jaw drops. It isn’t a dream. It’s been ever-so long since Dorian Gray has dreamt, a skill lost so long ago along with his innocence and purity.  


Lucifer Morningstar, in his resplendent angelic glory – sans wings, infamously rended cruelly from his body – stands before him. And here Dorian is, stammering across the counter like one of those gawky teenage boys who stumble in the academy’s halls. He’s such a damn _idiot_ , Dorian thought to himself. How could he not identify their unholy savior? The sheer sensation of flames on his face just standing across from him, as if he were standing in front of a blazing forge or the sun itself? The wafting scent of ash tinged with sulfur? The sudden desire – nay, compulsion – to prostrate himself and touch his nose to the ground in the deepest devotion?  


Hail our dark Lord Satan! For He is _here!_  


“Dark Lord,” he only just manages to choke out. He also manages not to lose control of his hands and drop the bottle of (quite unfairly priced) absinthe he’s cradling. “Forgive me, you look –”

“–Just as I did when I was in heaven,” Lucifer (Satan himself! In the flesh! Oh!) smoothly interrupts him, clearly already quite impatient. “Minus the wings, of course.”

Dorian feels the air leave his lungs all at once with an audible gasp and, only just, manages to steady his knees before they crumple beneath him altogether. Here he is, blessed by the presence of the Dark Lord in his most pure form! Angelic but free! It hasn’t been often in his immortal life that Dorian has felt humbled, but now, now… what a fool he feels like! He’s amazed, and ever-so grateful, that he wasn’t slain on the spot for his sheer impudence.  


Finally, he manages to say what he should have done _before_ the Morningstar even entered the room, bowing his head in both reverence and shame: “I live only to serve you, my lord.”  


But he can feel that heat, that sheer hellish energy turn away from him at once, bellowing for his Judaistic handmaiden: Lilith herself, the mother-of-witches, the first seducer, devourer of infants, the one who spurned Adam. Perhaps he should be mildly surprised when the suspiciously ever-present Mary Wardwell seems to simply glide nonchalantly and claims that it is indeed, she. But Dorian isn’t, not when he’s still shell-shocked from the revelation of _our unholy father!_ brought to earth in flesh familiar.  


So, he takes the opportunity to just compose himself, shake out his arms a little bit, exhale once, then twice, and get to doing his totally sacred duty of popping open a new bottle of 1966 Chateau Leoville Las Cases and pouring them some drinks. Whilst eavesdropping, of course. It’s a shame how His Unholiness has managed to catch him unawares while he was polishing the glassware, but at least there are a few he managed to polish before they arrived.

“…was surprised when you didn’t greet…”

Dorian remembers when he signed the Book of the Beast. One of the infrequent – but not unusual – ones to be introduced to this world of sorcery and dark magicks as an adult. Not the token somber dark baptism in a peaceful forest featured in most modern signings, no, but a truly bacchanal affair (courtesy of his good friend, father figure and lover Lord Henry, of course) which ended in not one but _two_ trips to the graveyard: One for business (a burial) and another for pleasure (a grave-digging). Of course, he learned that night that corpses in themselves do not derive one much pleasure – but having pleasure from someone while lying on them can be quite an exciting and existentialist experience.  


He could have developed quite differently as a warlock, Dorian thought, if he had the fortune of his murderous grandfather, Lord Keslo, turning him into an orphan at such a young age. Of course, he’d learn later that the man was a High Priest in one of the larger of the London covens.  The memory of the discovery flits, vaguely, through his head. A scandal best left remembered for another time.

“…the throne you promised me, the crown you assured me I’d be wearing…” she takes the glass that Dorian hands her, with nary a glance nor a thank you, “…and soon, that those things are going to Sabrina Spellman.” _Ah_. More drama about the golden child. Of course. “And not me.”  


“It’s not your turn yet, Lilith.”  


No, he’s not entirely sure if the Dark Lord can see into his mind, but he _feels_ as if he could, that his Mightiness, his Wickedness, the All-Devouring, can be omniscient in that sense. So, when the thought comes into his head how simply _petty_ both these ancient beings sound, well. He tries to suppress it as best as he can. _No_ , Lord Lucifer, he thinks. He thinks about how he would not judge him, and how simply ungrateful that stubborn demoness is for not assuming her rightful place within His plan, and how _dare_ that brazen whore speak to him like that. Unless, of course, Dorian is supposed to revere Lilith. Then… well, nevermind.

It also occurs to Dorian that he seems to be having a war of internal dialogues to an audience of completely nobody, both parties obviously very displeased with each-other and bidding no attention to him (or his thoughts, of which he still is not 100% sure are private or public in this context).

“Self pity bores me, Lilith.” Lucifer steps towards her with what Dorian can only describe as something akin to ‘seductive menace’, and tilts her head up to meet her gaze. “And you know what I’m like when I’m bored.” Even from here, Dorian can feel the edge in the both of them: The restrained fury of the Morningstar, Lillith’s trepidation in her widening eyes and – yes, a seething anger, too. _Indignation_. He can tell. He knows pride very well. His favorite sin, tied only with lust.

Perhaps he feels a bit of pity for her. Jealousy, certainly. To be walking even behind their savior, even not side-by-side as she would’ve wanted with her throne displaced by a Spellman, is only the greatest of honors. Though he will say that he doesn’t understand why Lady Satan herself would not choose a well, more youthful body to wear. Out of all the humans to skin – why not choose the most youthful and _least_  like a schoolteacher? Different tastes, he supposes. He’d personally gut, fillet, cure and wear an Instagram model.

Lucifer dismisses Lilith with a final undignified order – to find her successor, Sabrina – and she looks only slightly dead inside as she acquiesces, head tilted down and shoulders slightly sagging. “At once, my Lord.” She turns on her heels and swiftly walks, clicking out of the hall, while Dorian quickly ducks his head down and finds interest in scrubbing at an invisible stain on the bar. The heat of Lucifer returning to lean his body on the countertop near him is unmistakable, even when not looking. And he’s not even entirely sure if he should keep his head bowed in servitude or lifted up in eager attention. Dorian is certainly not going to _leave_ unless he’s dismissed.

Lucifer’s voice echos lowly to himself, a murmur he only just barely manages to catch: “In the meantime, I must attend to certain… wayward members of my flock.” The hollow _slam!_ of the glass that Dorian has set aside for him makes him jump up a little, eyes meeting Lucifer’s. He casts his gaze away, somehow scalded by the eye contact, and then brings his gaze back up when he realizes how _weak_ and un-Satanic he seems. And there Lucifer is, his bare torso leaning over his counter and seeming progressively closer than ever.

Dorian swallows, dryly, and is keenly aware of the Emperor of Darkness smudging his elbows across the bar.

“But first, my child,” the Morningstar nearly _croons_ , “my youthful, _blessed_ Dorian,” blessed by Him, of course, “it would benefit me if you served me in some other way.”

Lucifer lowers his head. His eyelashes capture some sort of sheen from the light.  


“You see, it has been quite a while since I enjoyed some carnality in some _proper_ form.”  


Dorian understands immediately. The language is all-too-familiar to him, ever since he became the youthful muse for all too many grown men. _Well_ before his descent onto the Path of the Night. His mouth nearly even starts to water, a Pavlovian response.

He did wish, since seeing his first glimpse of the Dark Lord in his more hellish form, that he would be blessed in the way that some witches would be to be visited by Him in the night. That _he_ would be the one grabbed by the throat with His deathly claw, that _his_ skirts would the ones hiked up and torn as he would be taken, willing or unwilling, by the Beast himself. That it would be a sure blessing to be used in that way. If only warlocks would be so lucky as witches to be treated in the same way. The highest of beings he’s ever lied with were a few officials within the Church of the Night, a few mythical creatures (a naiad here, a satyr there)…  


Here he is, being offered to do the very same – the lord, asking him to pleasure him. What an honor, it is, and that to be offered it in a form nearly (no, not nearly, _as_ , he bites his tongue) beautiful as he is, well. That should be an honor. Not that he would refuse to please the lord in any form: man, demon, beast, vegetable or mineral. He simply cannot say no, so he wouldn’t. He doesn’t.

“It would be the deepest of honors to give myself to you, my Lord,” he whispers.  Brushing his hair from his face and straightening the array of beads around his neck, he gingerly circles to Lucifer’s side of the counter, hand drawing its path on the surface as he tries to steady it from shaking. He does his best to look lissome to the Bringer of Ends, but he does have the conscious feeling that he might look a little bit scared.

No, not just a little bit. He _is_ scared. That might be a bit of the turn-on for Satan, so that’s fine. He can see Lucifer looking down at him, smug and pleased and haughty as Dorian dutifully sinks to his knees (should have mopped the floor last night, the dust will certainly settle on his trouser legs) and hooks his fingers into his loincloth, pressing his nose into him, then presses his lips into his hardening (human-shaped, thankfully not goatlike) cock through that thin fabric.  


Lucifer’s hand, soft and firm, lifts him away and tilts his head – lips beginning to become pink, pouty and wet with spittle – away from him. “No,” he murmurs. “Up and around,” he punctuates with the relevant motions with his other hand.

Dorian knows when he’s asked to take a _buggery_ when he’s asked. An opportunity to get even closer to the Antichrist. How blessed is he? Surely, he is.

So, Dorian lifts himself – nay, islifted by his chin – smoothly upwards. He doesn’t need to say anything, brain tinged with some strange mix of lust and trepidation and acquiescence, just turns around to press his ass out, one hand on the countertop and the other rifling around in his chest pocket for his oh-so-handy little tube of grease for opportunities such as this…

…and nearly yelps, as the Dark Lord suddenly is immediately behind him, bare chest pressing into his clothed back as he painfully wretches Dorian’s hand away from him to slam onto the counter. His other hand follows shortly, tangling his fingers in Dorian’s golden locks to shove the side of his face onto the surface. The sharp pain radiates like a well-worn memory, and Dorian just sighs at the familiar brutality of it all. This is, after all, what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be taken by Satan himself, in the most Satanistic way? Is this another stepping stone in his path to most true depravity?

Lucifer Morningstar leans over him, voice pointed like a knife: “Absolutely not. You will not deign to demean me by using any sort of _assistance_.” Dorian can feel him pressing into the cleft of his behind, can feel his hardness through his pants – which he assumes are not going to survive long here. “You will take me as I am.”

“Forgive my misstep, my Lord,” he whispers, then clenches his jaw, keeps his eyes open and thinks of how good a story this will be within the next century.  



End file.
